


so familiar a gleam

by oryx



Category: Kamen Rider Build
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, new world-related memory issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 23:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18062141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: The Prime Minister's son pays a visit to Our Sawatari Farm.





	so familiar a gleam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinateRixatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinateRixatrix/gifts).



> thank youu <3 this was a nice one to write.  
> nobody laugh at me over the title, okay? the heart wants what it wants in that regard

  
He’s never paid much attention to politics.  
   
It’s all far away from here. That’s how it’s always felt. Old men in suits in staid, orderly rooms, miles and miles from anything that Kazumi knows to be true. Those few decisions that affect them, out here in the fields under the empty sky, feel like little more than ripples in a pond from some distant stone being dropped, dredging up silt from the bottom and clouding the water, only to be smoothed back into ordinary stillness not long after.  
   
He doesn’t get why the others even bother. Stopping work to watch those Prime Minster addresses on the tiny, staticky portable tv.  
   
“This Himuro guy totally gets it, Boss,” Masaru tells him. “He supports the, y’know, the…”  
   
“The working class,” Shuuya fills in.  
   
“Yeah, that!”  
   
Kazumi leans on the handle of his shovel and gives them an unimpressed look. “Sure he does. Isn’t that what they all say?”  
   
“He means it, though,” Shokichi insists. “You can just tell. His son, too.”  
   
Kazumi snorts. He can see him, just then, on the screen past Shokichi’s shoulder, inclining his head to the Prime Minister and stepping up to the podium looking as deeply solemn as ever. “That beardo? Didn’t he just get the job ‘cause of his old man? Yeah, I bet he’s real dedicated to helping us blue collar folks.”  
   
Something about that guy. Himuro Gentoku. It makes the back of Kazumi’s neck itch, seeing him standing there in front of the cameras in his perfectly tailored suits, reading from his perfectly written speeches. A feeling of wrongness twists itself through his gut every time. Like he’s seeing something he knows to be false.  
   
“Oh, yo, he said something about Hokkaido,” Masaru is exclaiming. “Turn it up, man.”  
   
Shokichi complies.  
   
“…my father and I both believe strongly in supporting the agricultural heart of this country,” says Himuro Gentoku. “Which is why I will be personally touring several farming communities within the Iwate, Akita, and Aomori prefectures, to talk one-on-one with the people who live and work there, and gain a better understanding of the struggles they face – ”  
   
“Whoa, seriously?” Masaru grins over at the other two. “Aomori? Y’think he’s coming here?”  
   
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Kazumi mutters, and can feel his scowl deepen.  
   
  
   
  
   
The imminent arrival of the Prime Minister’s son is the most exciting event the town has had to look forward to in years. Other than being the birthplace of mid-tier professional baseball player Okubo Ryosuke, who famously struck out against the Giants three years ago and lost the Swallows their playoff chance, no well-known individual has ever set foot around this neck of the woods, and it’s all anyone seems to be talking about in the weeks leading up to the scheduled visit.  
   
Kazumi is already sick of it.  
   
“Can we get on a different subject, please?” he asks, glowering down the length of the bar as he nurses his beer. “Himuro this and Himuro that. Like this beardo’s gonna write us all checks for a million yen or something. You know this is all a stunt, right? They just want to look like ‘allies of the people’ or whatever.”  
   
Ukyo pauses in polishing a glass to raise an eyebrow at him. “You seem awfully worked up about it, Kazumi-chan. I thought you didn’t care about politicians either way?”  
   
“Yeah, Boss,” Shokichi says, frowning. “Normally you’d just ignore something like this. Wouldn’t he?”  
   
Shuuya and Masaru nod in agreement.  
   
“That’s – ” He stops. Why  _does_  he care so much? This anger seems to come from nowhere, creating itself out of nothing, and the realization makes his shoulders tense. He takes a hurried swig of beer and clears his throat. “I’m not interested, really. I’m just. Being the voice of logic around here. Since the rest of you idiots are one step away from building a statue in this guy’s honor.”  
   
He knows the others are exchanging glances of confusion as he swivels his barstool around, trying and failing to focus on the evening news that’s on the screen overhead, his grip tight enough to ache around the neck of the bottle.  
   
  
   
  
   
He could’ve said no.  
   
That thought keeps rattling around in his mind. For all his inexplicable annoyance, when Himuro Gentoku’s assistant had called and asked to make Our Sawatari Farm a stop on the tour of Hokkaido’s heartland… he could’ve said no.  
   
But he didn’t.  
   
On the day this guy is set to show, Kazumi finds himself out repairing a section of fence along the roadside, the old wood knocked down and splintered apart by the strong winds last night. It’s a task he could’ve delegated to anyone. But instead he’d picked up his toolbox and some spare planks and he’d marched out to the farm perimeter himself, with a strange, singular sense in the back of his mind that he was meant to be there.  
   
As it goes, he’s the first one to meet him.  
   
The sleek black car isn’t meant for unpaved backroads, and it seems to be struggling as it judders to a halt in front of him. The backseat window lowers with a mechanical whir.  
   
“Excuse me. Is this… ‘Our Sawatari Farm’?” Himuro Gentoku asks, his gaze cast down, seemingly reading the name from a document on his phone.  
   
Kazumi can feel his jaw tighten; he hefts his handsaw and rests it against his shoulder in what he imagines (hopes) must be a somewhat threatening manner.  
   
“It could be,” he says.  
   
Himuro’s eyes snap up to look at him. His image on the tv doesn’t really convey how intense they are, Kazumi thinks. His eyes. Piercing, might be a better word. Like being run through with something polished and sharp.  
   
“Could be?” Himuro echoes, brow furrowing. “Is that a yes or a no?”  
   
“I mean it doesn’t really matter, does it? Just another backwater farm on your little list. They all look the same anyway, right?”  
   
Himuro’s frown deepens. “You’re being rather rude and confrontational,” he says, with such absolute earnestness in his voice that Kazumi has to bite back a startled laugh. “I will ask someone else up ahead, then.”  
   
“Yeah, you do that,” Kazumi calls, as the tinted window rolls up and the car begins to lurch forward down the road again.  
   
He watches until it turns around the bend, an odd, restless feeling creeping up his spine, and almost nails his hand to the fencepost when he returns to his task, his thoughts someplace far away.  
   
  
   
Evening is falling when he finally returns to the main house to find the black car parked out front. He can hear Masaru and Shokichi’s voices – as loud and overbearing as ever – from within as he sets his toolbox down on the porch and pushes the door open.  
   
“Oh, Boss! Look who showed up!” Masaru smiles broadly and jabs his thumb in Himuro Gentoku’s direction, who, along with his sharply-dressed assistant, is looking severely out of place as he stands in the rustic, cluttered interior hallway. “We’ve been telling him all about the farm and I didn’t even mess up any of the details this time so don’t you worry.”  
   
“I coached him earlier,” Shuuya adds.  
   
Himuro blinks at Kazumi, wide-eyed and startled. “… _You_  are this ‘Boss’ they’ve been mentioning? You are… Sawatari Kazumi?”  
   
“Yeah, that’s me. Got a problem?”  
   
“Geez, Boss.” Shokichi winces; claps his hands together in contrition as he turns back to Himuro. “Sorry, he’s kind of been in a bad mood lately. He doesn’t mean it, I swear. He’s usually nicer than this. …What were you saying before he came in, Himuro-san?”  
   
“Ah. Well. It seems there was a wind storm of some sort last night? The minshuku we had reservations with has lost power and does not seem to have an ETA on when it will return. As it were… we’re looking for another place to stay. Do you know of anywhere that might take us?”  
   
The group falls silent for a long moment.  
   
Slowly, all three of his employees turn to look at him.  
   
“Oh, hell no,” Kazumi says.  
   
“Why not? You’ve got plenty of room in here!”  
   
“This isn’t a damn inn, you idiots. It’s my house, and I’m saying no.”  
   
“Despite this not being an inn, we would be more than willing compensate you for room and board,” Himuro’s assistant – Morimoto, she’d called herself on the phone – says quickly, stepping forward and adjusting her glasses. “Plus… any additional expenses you might require?”  
   
She lets the suggestion hang in the air between them.  
   
“Honestly, this seems like a pretty good deal, Boss,” Shuuya says, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “Money under the table from government officials just to stay in your spare rooms for a couple days? What’s the drawback?”  
   
What  _is_  the drawback? He reaches around for an answer but finds none. And Himuro notwithstanding, this (fairly cute, now that he looks at her face up close) woman is asking him for his help. He wouldn’t be much of a man if he left her out in the cold.  
   
He rubs at the back of his neck with a ‘tch.’ “Yeah, alright, fine,” he mutters. “You can have the two upstairs rooms.” He gestures in Shokichi and Masaru’s general direction. “One of you dumbasses go get the lady’s bags. And tell them when meals are and all that. You’re gonna have to put up with communal lunch around here, sorry to say. It’s not exactly fancy.”  
   
Himuro looks at him steadily, then, a profound weight to it, before dropping into a deep bow with such abruptness that Kazumi jumps a bit. “I cannot fully express my gratitude,” he says, and Kazumi blinks.  
   
“That’s… Just forget it, will you? It’s not that big a deal.” He waves a hand as if to brush the formalities away, discomfort itching beneath his skin. “I’ve got payroll to do, then I’m turning in for the night. I’ll see y’all in the morning.”  
   
He can still feel Himuro’s eyes on him as he turns to walk away.  
   
  
   
  
   
The kabocha are coming in well this year. Last year’s crop had been underwhelming, stricken with disease, and so he finds himself smiling as he walks along the rows of healthy-looking gourds, stopping here and there to push aside the curling vines and leaves and examine the patterns on their rough skin for any irregularities.  
   
“You… are very dedicated.”  
   
He glances over his shoulder. Himuro Gentoku is not black tie formal today, and it gives Kazumi a moment of pause – dyed-dark jeans and a fashionable leather jacket are an odd look to see on the Prime Minister’s son, and yet. It suits him, somehow, in a way he can’t explain.  
   
“Dedicated, huh?” He pats the kabocha in front of him and gets back to his feet. His breath turns to white in the air as he exhales. “I mean. This  _is_  my job.”  
   
“None of the upper management at the other farms I’ve visited so far were out in the fields like this.”  
   
“Maybe that’s their way of operating,” Kazumi says, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m just doing things the way my grandpa taught me. That’s all.”  
   
“Your grandfather? Did you inherit this place from him, then?”  
   
Kazumi narrows his eyes. “ _His_  farm’s long gone now. I built this whole operation myself, from the ground up. Though I guess that might be hard for someone like you to wrap your head around.”  
   
Drawing himself up to the fullest height he can manage, he brushes past Himuro without pausing to catch a glimpse of his reaction.  
   
“Are there… potatoes?”  
   
Kazumi stops mid-step. Turns back slowly to level him with a blank look.  
   
“Here on the farm,” Himuro continues, that same strange intensity in his voice. “Do you also grow potatoes here?”  
   
“…Yeah? Two fields over that way,” Kazumi says, pointing eastward. “Why?”  
   
Himuro’s expression falters and softens into something almost like – relief? “I see,” he murmurs. “So you are a potato farmer. That’s good.”  
   
Kazumi stares back at him in baffled silence for a time before shaking his head. “And you’re kind of a weird one, aren’t you?” he says dryly.  
   
Still, he wonders why he feels somewhat pleased, as he sets off down the next row of kabocha, the chilly morning air suddenly a little less biting against his cheeks.  
   
  
   
  
   
He keeps encountering Himuro in the distance, as the day wears on – glances up from loading the truck to see him talking with Otsuka and Fujii over by the silos, stops in the middle of checking the soil quality of the beet fields to see Himuro tramping past in the field opposite, taking pictures on his phone.  
   
He is…  _slightly_  more committed to what he came here for than Kazumi had thought he’d be. He’ll give him that.  
   
He doesn’t actually come face to face with him again until well after nightfall, though. When the house is silent and still, and he glances at the clock and curses under his breath because it’s this late already and he forgot to turn the outside lights off.  
   
He finds Himuro Gentoku sitting on the couch in the study, wearing a ratty old zip-up sweatshirt and pinstriped pajama pants, flipping through a photo album by the weak glow of the old floor lamp.  
   
“Uh,” Kazumi says, hovering in the doorway, and Himuro’s eyes snap up.  
   
“I apologize,” he says immediately. “I was having trouble sleeping, and I… just wandered in here, for some reason. The photo album was sitting here on the table, so I assumed it was nothing too personal?”  
   
“…Nah,” Kazumi manages, after a moment of not being able to find his voice. “It’s fine. Just employee pics in that one, I think.”  
   
“I noticed. Do you… take pictures like this every year?” He turns the album around to display a group photo – the one from five years ago, when Kazumi looks a bit closer. The staff had been smaller, then, and so it’s easier to pinpoint himself in the image: in the back row, with Masaru’s arm slung around his shoulder.  
   
“Every year, yeah. Right before harvest season starts. ‘S kinda like a luck thing, I guess. ‘Capture everyone’s feelings before the important moment’ or something.”  
   
Himuro nods, a contemplative hum in the back of his throat. “It’s a good tradition. Maybe I will start doing the same in my office. I hope you don’t mind me stealing your idea.”  
   
Kazumi can feel amusement creeping up on him. “Sure, knock yourself out. And we’ve got some booze in the kitchen if you want to pour some in your tea or whatever. That might knock you out literally, if you’re interested.”  
   
Himuro places the album aside and gets to his feet slowly, deliberately, with a somber sort of aura surrounding him, and –  
   
He unzips his hoodie and yanks the fabric aside with a flourish to reveal a t-shirt underneath that reads “Thank You For Your Kind Hospitality” in bold black print.  
   
Kazumi stares blankly.  
   
“Wait,” he says. “How long have you been wearing that?”  
   
Himuro claps him on the shoulder as he passes by in lieu of answer, a touch that seems to linger even after his hand is gone.  
   
(Kazumi returns to his room in a bewildered half-daze before remembering that he still hasn’t shut the exterior lights off.)  
   
  
   
  
   
“So,” Masaru says, slightly muffled as he swallows a bite of curry, “if I paid you my taxes right now, could I like. Exchange that for something cool? Like a flamethrower permit, so I could melt all the snow real easy in the winter?”  
   
Everyone else at their table in the dining hall falls quiet, spoons gone still against their bowls. Shokichi opens his mouth and then closes it again, his brow knit together.  
   
“…He doesn’t know what taxes are,” Shuuya finally explains to Himuro, who makes a soft ‘ah’ sound as he nods. “We always do them for him.”  
   
Himuro clears his throat. “Well. That misunderstanding aside, is inclement weather a consistent concern for you all?”  
   
Kazumi huffs out a wry laugh. “You’re the one whose minshuku reservations fell through ‘cause of some wind. What do you think?”  
   
“I mean, sure, it’s just part of life around here,” Shokichi explains. “And it’s not like we do much farming in the winter, except in the greenhouses. But. I dunno. Even in town it’s like we’re cut off from everything else when it snows too much? Some of the roads are way too hard to plow. Even cell service stops working sometimes. It’s a major pain.”  
   
“I see,” Himuro says, frowning thoughtfully, and scribbles something onto the notepad that he’s been carrying around with him. “This is all related to outdated rural infrastructure, in the end. It’s something I’d really like to push for an overhaul of. Assuming the diet is willing to listen to reason.”  
   
Masaru’s eyes widen. He nudges Kazumi’s hand with his own. “Y’hear that, Boss? ‘Outdated rural infrastructure.’ Didn’t you complain about something like that before?”  
   
“…Maybe once or twice,” Kazumi admits, and Masaru grins back at him.  
   
Endou nearly careens headlong into them as they step out of the dining hall. He reaches out reflexively to grab her by the arm and steady her, and her expression is panicked when her eyes meet his.  
   
“Boss…”  
   
He snaps to attention in an instant. “What happened?”  
   
“I – ” She bites her lip, wringing her hands together in front of her, and her posture seems to wilt as she does so. “My brother just called me. He said… he said our dad is in the hospital. That it could be bad.”  
   
“For real?” Kazumi steels himself against the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as a chorus of sympathetic noises and ‘oh no’s travel like a wave through the group now forming around them. He squeezes her shoulder firmly. “Okay, listen to me. You get out of here right now. Forget about whatever you were doing today, someone’ll cover it. Your folks live two towns over, right? You need a ride to the bus stop?”  
   
“…Boss,” she murmurs, her eyes looking somewhat glassy. “No, I. I can make it.”  
   
“Alright. But at least take some cash for the fare from the emergency fund in the office,” he says, in the most ‘don’t argue with me’ tone he can manage. “You know where it is, don’t you?”  
   
She hesitates before nodding, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand and seeming to draw herself up again, a determined set to her mouth.  
   
“Then get going. And call us with news when you can.” He spins her around and gives her an encouraging shove forward, and she looks over her shoulder to nod once more before taking off for the main house.  
   
“Ah, geez.” Kazumi lets out a weary breath as soon as she’s out of sight, running a hand through his hair.  
   
“Her grandparents just passed away a couple months ago, too,” Shokichi murmurs from somewhere behind him. “That was before she came here, but. I heard from someone. That she had to take time off for that, and got fired from her last job because of it. Isn’t she way too unlucky?”  
   
Kazumi tries to smooth his scowl away as he claps his hands together, turning around to face the gathered crowd. “Okay, people. We’re all gonna make up for Endou’s workload while she’s gone. That clear? She was on the tilling crew today, right? That shouldn’t be too hard to cover for. Anything else?”  
   
“She’s on kitchen duty tomorrow,” Jojima pipes up.  
   
Kazumi taps a finger against his forearm as he contemplates this. “Alright. I’ll take over for that, then.” He waves a hand. “Back to work, folks. Stay warm out there.”  
   
He catches Himuro watching him, as the group disperses. That typical intensity of his is muted, and in its place is something else – something quiet and contemplative and searching. As if he were struggling to fit together a puzzle in his mind but missing the last few pieces.  
   
“You, too,” Kazumi calls, tilting his head to the side and arching an eyebrow. “Don’t you have some work to be doing, Mister Politician?”  
   
Himuro starts, seeming to come back to himself from wherever he was, and – he smiles. Just a faint curve of his mouth, barely visible under his idiotic mustache, but. It’s there. “You as well, potato farmer,” he says.  
   
Kazumi’s lips twitch, as if to smile in return, before he remembers himself and turns aside, pulling up his hood against the cold and hiding his face from view, a strange sort of tightness in his throat.  
   
(It’s too soon to be addressing me so casually, is what he should be thinking, but that thought feels curiously like a lie.)  
   
  
   
  
   
He’s never minded kitchen duty. Cooking isn’t exactly a life’s passion, but he’s proud of the few skills he’s mastered – most of them learned through keen observation of his grandmother preparing family suppers, his elbows on the countertops watching the expert way she peeled each vegetable and seasoned each simmering pot. He’d found her book of recipes, too, years later, when the old farm was being emptied out and gutted and put up for sale. It’s still the only guide he consults when it comes to things like this.  
   
Maybe it’s those old nostalgic feelings, but he’s always preferred cooking alone.  
   
He freezes with his ladle halfway into the soup stock. “Where… did you get that?”  
   
“I found it,” Himuro Gentoku says simply. He’s wearing a lilac pinafore apron over his clothes, ruffles around the sleeves and hem, the English words ‘KISS THE COOK’ and a pair of bright red lips stitched across the chest.  
   
“Found it  _where?_ ” Kazumi hisses.  
   
“That is not important. What is important is that I am here to assist you with lunch.”  
   
Kazumi shakes himself, somehow averting his eyes from the apron. “Oh, not a chance,” he says with a scowl. “You can’t cook worth a damn, beardo. Get the hell outta my kitchen.” He sets down his ladle with a decisive clang; puts his hands on Himuro’s chest and physically begins to steer him back towards the door.  
   
The man stops short, planting his heels and turning into a solid wall beneath Kazumi’s palms.  
   
“…What makes you think so?” he asks slowly.  
   
“Haa?”  
   
“That I can’t cook. What makes you say that?”  
   
Kazumi blinks.  
   
“I – ” he starts, but his voice seems to get stuck somewhere in his chest. Why  _did_  he say that? It’s the same as before. Sentiments and emotions unfurling from some hollow place between his ribs that he can’t put a name to. His hands are still pressed against Himuro’s chest – he can feel his heartbeat beneath his fingertips, and he yanks them away, swallowing hard.  
   
“Just… a lucky guess,” he says stiltedly. “You’re the real ‘Young Master’ type, aren’t you? I’d be more surprised if you  _could_  do anything for yourself.”  
   
Himuro frowns. “I’ll have you know I do my own laundry very regularly nowadays.”  
   
Kazumi can’t help but laugh at that, sharp and startled. “Seriously?” he says. The bizarre feeling of a moment ago – like he’d existed just outside himself, rattled loose from the space he usually occupies – is fading, and he thinks it must have been nothing, after all. Just his mind playing tricks.  
   
It wasn’t such a strange assumption to make. Was it?  
   
“I guess,” he says, and considers Himuro pensively, “I could at least let you chop onions or something. I don’t think you could ruin that too much.”  
   
He does prefer it. Cooking alone. But, as he sighs and reaches over to fix Himuro’s grip on the knife for the third time in however many minutes, he supposes it’s not entirely awful. To have someone in the kitchen with him, every once in a while.  
   
Himuro’s face is set in deep concentration as another bit of onion goes flying across the counter, and this time Kazumi allows himself to smile, just a little.  
   
  
   
  
   
“I guess I ought to thank you.”  
   
He glances up from twisting the loose bolt on the wheelbarrow to find Himuro’s assistant standing next to him, dressed in what looks like three different layers of sweaters, her glasses fogging up due to the faint mist that’s falling just beyond the overhang. It’s a grey morning, but not an unpleasant one. There’s a certain lightness to the air that means the sun will show itself in a few hours’ time.  
   
“Thank me for what?”  
   
She nods toward the opposite toolshed. Himuro and Yorozuka are seated on crates just within its open doors, deep in discussion about something he can’t quite hear but probably has to do with unfair agricultural labor laws. Yorozuka has a tendency to get pretty heated, if he’s remembering their post-harvest drinking parties correctly. Himuro is nodding along very seriously to everything he’s saying, a few strands of hair fallen loose from his ponytail.  
   
“This is the first time I’ve seen him so engaged on this trip,” Morimoto muses. “Obviously your employees are part of it, too, but. I think it’s mostly your doing.” A pause. “He has a lot of potential, as a politician. But he really gets disheartened sometimes. When people don’t have the same level of passion for what they do that he does. Or the same kindness.”  
   
Kazumi leans back in his chair, wiping the black grease methodically from his fingers with a rag. “Kindness, huh? That’s the vibe I give off?”  
   
Morimoto gives him an amused look over the rim of her glasses. “Do you not think so?”  
   
Kazumi presses his lips together and does not answer. Yorozuka  _is_  supposed to be working right now. Supposed to be all the way over in the greenhouses, actually. Kazumi should by all rights be shouting at Himuro to leave his employees to their tasks.  
   
Instead, he stays there with an odd sense of calm stealing over him, the muffled political discussion floating over on the breeze, as the light mist of rain slows and then lets up completely.  
   
  
   
  
   
Shockingly, as he and Shuuya and Himuro sit out on the porch of the main house that evening, the conversation actually manages to drift into something more casual. Of course, with a topic like “1970s detective-themed tv dramas” there’s only so much that Kazumi can contribute.  
   
“How old are you two? You a couple of a grandpas or something?” he mutters, and they both turn to look at him with matching glowers.  
   
“You would understand if you’d ever seen it, Sawatari.”  
   
“Fushigi Keiji Nabe-san is a classic, Boss. You’re writing off a masterpiece just because it’s a little outdated.”  
   
Kazumi rolls his eyes and leaves them to it.  
   
His phone buzzes in his pocket – when he pulls it out to see Endou’s name on the caller ID, he sits up a little straighter in his seat.  
   
“Hey,” he says cautiously.  
   
“…Hey, Boss.” Her voice sounds small and tired.  
   
He glances sidelong at his companions, still chatting away about how ‘emotionally impactful’ episode 34 had been, and gets to his feet as casually as he can, moving a little ways down the porch to lean against the railing. “How are things? With your old man?”  
   
A beat.  
   
“He’s gonna make it,” she says finally, and it’s like the instant she says it is the instant it sinks in for her, too, her words catching as she lets out a shaky breath.  
   
Kazumi closes his eyes; feels the tension in his body ease a bit. “I’m glad to hear it. Give him my regards, okay?”  
   
“I will. But, um.” He can almost see her standing there, in some sterile hospital hallway, curled in on herself with her fingers twisting the hem of her jacket. “I… Do I still have a job? When I come back?”  
   
Annoyance flares up hot along the back of his neck, fingers gripping the railing hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and he has to exhale slowly to keep his tone even when he says:  
   
“Obviously, idiot. What kind of place d’you think this is?” He pauses, and breathes, and tries to let the rest of that anger go. “I named it ‘Our’ farm for a reason, y’know. It’s everyone’s. Yours, too.”  
   
It takes her a long moment to reply, and her voice is muffled and thick (must be the less-than-stellar connection) when she says, “Thanks, Boss.”  
   
He stows his phone in his pocket again; turns back with a small smile to find the other two studying him.  
   
“Good news?” Shuuya says, a cautious kind of optimism, and Kazumi nods.  
   
“Her old man’s gonna pull through, apparently.”  
   
Shuuya’s answering grin brightens his face. “Thank goodness. I’ll let the others know.”  
   
He’s off a second later to do just that, jogging down the porch steps and across the darkened fields towards the light spilling from the dining hall, leaving Kazumi and Himuro staring after him.  
   
“You seem to care very deeply for your employees,” Himuro says.  
   
Kazumi shrugs. “Treat people decently and they put in better work. That’s just basic business sense.”  
   
Himuro rises from his seat and walks over to lean against the railing next to him, standing far too close, and when Kazumi meets his gaze he finds his expression oddly soft again. The dim porchlight reflects in the darkest part of his eyes.  
   
“As dishonest as ever, potato farmer.”  
   
“Shaddup,” Kazumi mutters.  
   
(As ever? Why would you say that, he desperately wants to ask. Hasn’t it only been four days since you came here, into my house and my life? You don’t know me at all, and I don’t know you, but again the thought feels like a lie as it sits there in the back of his mind – )  
   
“You… seem to care a lot, too,” he says. “For your job. So… sorry. For being kind of hostile, at first.” He gives Himuro a pensive look. “Honestly, you’re pretty unlike any other politician I’ve ever met.”  
   
The corner of Himuro’s mouth twitches. “I have frequently been told that I don’t have the cunning for it. To tell the truth, I might have been content staying a minor civil servant. But I… I just…”  
   
His words taper off.  
   
Haltingly, he lifts a hand and places it on Kazumi’s arm, at the curve of his elbow, and Kazumi jolts like a livewire at the touch, staring down at it before meeting Himuro’s eyes again. That intensity is back. His fingers curl tighter, warm even through his coat, and Kazumi’s mouth feels dry, his own breathing loud in his ears.  
   
“Someone told me they believed that I could lead this country,” Himuro says. “Though… I can’t remember who they were. I should remember someone like that, shouldn’t I?” He looks almost pleading. “Maybe… it was just a dream.”  
   
It’s cool out here in the night air, and so Kazumi wonders why he feels so hot, a thrum that travels from his chest to the tips of his fingers.  
   
He’s reaching up to cradle Himuro’s face in his hands and pulling him into a kiss before his mind has fully caught up. He startles himself at the force behind it, the press of lips more desperate than anything, and the scratch of Himuro’s beard against his skin sends him reeling back a second later with wide eyes.  
   
“What the hell am I doing?” he murmurs.  
   
Himuro, strangely enough, doesn’t seem surprised. It’s that same quiet, searching look from a few days prior, and he closes the gap between them again to slide his arms around Kazumi, letting his forehead come to rest against his shoulder. Kazumi stiffens. He can feel the rise and fall of Himuro’s breathing against his own chest, and it’s so intimate it sends a shiver down his spine.  
   
“Get off me, idiot,” he says hoarsely, even as his hand reaches up, over the stretch of Himuro’s back to curl his fingers into his hair.  
   
“You’re sending mixed signals, Sawatari Kazumi,” says the voice against shoulder.  
   
He can’t help but laugh at that, though his eyes sting a bit when he blinks them.  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
The whole process of “seeing people off” when they leave has always felt a bit pointless to him. It only ever makes things awkward – the silences when the goodbyes run out, the unsettled feeling of standing there watching them drive away, as if you yourself were a forgotten piece of luggage.  
   
It’s simpler not to acknowledge it at all.  
   
“Boss, are you sure you don’t want to…?” Shokichi is giving him a worried look, and it makes irritation prickle like so many needles across the back of his neck.  
   
“‘Course I am. You’re all better than I am at saying all that polite stuff, anyway.”  
   
Shokichi frowns, but seems to know that he can’t argue with him. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll be back to work soon, I promise.”  
   
He hops down off the fence, jogging to catch up with the others, and Kazumi stares after them until they’ve turned past the orchard and are gone from sight. He shakes himself. There’s weeding to do in the potato fields, and he tugs his work gloves on with a resolute kind of efficiency.  
   
It’s easy to fall into a mindless rhythm out here, especially when you’re on your own. He doesn’t know how many minutes he spends crouched there in between the rows of potatoes, tugging weeds out of the soil –  
   
“Sawatari Kazumi.”  
   
He glances up.  
   
Gentoku looks like he ran here, is his first thought. His suit is in disarray, tie flung over his shoulder, his breath coming quick and his face slightly pink.  
   
“I think,” he says, with utter seriousness, “that we should exchange phone numbers.”  
   
Kazumi stares at him. Something seems to wrap itself around his heart and squeeze, then – once, twice, not quite painful enough to hurt. Gradually, he tips back on his heels, falling out of his crouch and sitting there in the damp grass, unable to keep the lopsided grin off his face.  
   
“You know I’m gonna add you as ‘Beardo,’ right?” he says.  
   
Gentoku arches an eyebrow. “I would expect nothing less from you, potato farmer.”


End file.
